


Stronger Than Justice

by OnYourMark



Category: White Collar
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnYourMark/pseuds/OnYourMark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew Keller's last words were, "Hey Caffrey, guess what I found? Our dad."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Question

It was just stupid.

It really was, Neal thought, stupid and risky and Keller all over. Back when Keller showed up with a wine bottle and a challenge, Neal had known he was in for some bullshit, but he didn't think he'd be in for this much. Keller had conned Neal and kidnapped Peter and escaped prison and come back to toy with Neal some more, and there they stood, both of them, arms in the air, because someone had interrupted their little game with a gun.

"Who is this guy?" Neal asked, trying not to move his lips.

"Old pal from Iraq," Keller answered.

"You were in Iraq?"

"Gunrunning."

"You are such a son of a bitch."

"Watch your mouth, Caffrey."

He had a wire on, but he knew Peter would need time to get there -- it had all gone down so much faster than expected -- and Neal was trying to fast-talk him and Keller out of the situation, trying to get the gun aimed at him lowered, when Keller moved like a snake and the guy fired at Neal and Keller was there, the bullet a solid thud in his chest.

He staggered back into Neal and they went down together in a heap of blood and sprawling limbs just as Peter and four huge SWAT guys burst in. Peter fired a shot that ensured the other guy would never get up, while Neal hauled himself up to cradle Keller in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," he said softly. "I didn't want you killed."

Keller laughed, gurgling. "Shut the fuck up, Caffrey."

"There'll be an ambulance here soon," Peter said, crouching to put pressure on the wound.

"Fuck you too, Fed," Keller spat, blood flecking his lips, and then he tilted his head back to look at Neal. "Hey, I got somethin' to tell you before I kick it," he said.

"You're not going to die," Peter said. Neal rarely heard Peter lie, but it was always startling when he did. "There's a prison cell with your name on it."

Keller ignored him. "Caffrey. Caffrey. Hey, Caffrey, guess what I found?"

Neal fought the urge to roll his eyes. The man was dying, and all three of them knew it. "What's that, Keller?"

"Our dad," Keller said, and he barely managed to get it out before he was writhing and shaking, blood pouring out of the wound, out of his mouth.

Peter did CPR until the ambulance showed up, not that it did any good. They watched it pull away, both of them covered in Keller's blood.

"What the hell did he mean, 'our dad'?" Peter asked.

"I'm not sure I want to find out," Neal said.

\---

They had to go to the hospital, because Neal was drenched in Keller's blood and Peter wasn't much better. They did tests for communicable diseases; they gave Peter a spare shirt and Neal a set of scrubs to wear. Once the testing was over, they let Peter clean the blood off his arms with alcohol and hot water.

"What do _you_ think he meant?" Neal asked, leaning in the doorway of the little cubicle bathroom where Peter was scrubbing his hands.

"Are you related?" Peter asked.

"Not that I know."

"You lying to me?"

Neal gave him an indignant look. Peter sighed.

"You're not lying, okay. Maybe he meant, you know...metaphorically. Keller know Mozzie?"

"Mozzie's not my father figure," Neal said. "Slightly crazy uncle figure, maybe."

"Then I don't know, Neal," Peter said, sounding frustrated. "Maybe Keller knew something you didn't. Your dad actually die when you were two?"

Neal ducked his head. "That's what my mom said."

"And?"

"And she lied about a lot of things," Neal said. "I know he didn't die when I was two. Past that, I haven't looked into it."

"So you don't know much about him."

"You're seriously considering the idea that Matthew Keller might be my brother?" Neal asked. Peter shrugged.

"If the leg iron fits..." he said. "Look, for all we know he was trying to say _your_. Hell, for all we know he was just screwing with you one last time. He liked that. Making you jump."

"I know," Neal said, watching the blood run off Peter's hands into the sink. "But do you think...?"

"I don't know," Peter replied, and then paused. "You want to find out?"

\---

"This is off the grid," Peter said, as Neal opened his mouth. He felt rough fibers against the inside of his cheek, and then Peter pulled the swab out and capped the plastic cover over it. He'd taken it out of the evidence retrieval van sitting in the parking lot, waiting to collect Keller's clothes and effects. "I'll put it through forensics but I'm not putting your name on it."

"Suits me fine," Neal answered. "Are you going to swab Keller?"

"I shouldn't go near the body," Peter said. "They're going to assign someone else to investigate the incident, make sure I was within the law discharging my weapon. Until they know for sure I shot the other guy and not Keller, I shouldn't really get into it."

"So how...?" Neal asked. Peter looked over his shoulder, at the blood-stained shirt sitting on the bathroom counter. He took a knife out of his pocket and clipped a square off neatly, dropping it into an evidence bag next to the bag containing the swab. He block-printed the relevant information on them, initialed as the chain-of-evidence agent, and tossed his ruined shirt and tie into the trash.

Neal waited at a distance as Peter spoke with the evidence techs, filled out some paperwork, and handed off the samples. When he was done, he jerked his head at Neal and walked briskly towards the Taurus. Neal noticed spatters of Keller's blood on Peter's shoes.

"You want me to drop you at June's?" Peter asked, as they pulled out of the parking lot.

"Sure. Are you going home?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm going to be up to my ass in paperwork tomorrow anyway, might as well get some rest while I can."

Neal nodded absently. "What happens now?"

"DNA'll be back in about a week -- "

"No, to -- Keller."

Peter exhaled slowly. "His effects will be bagged as evidence. Body'll be autopsied and held for a few days. If they know of any relatives -- " he cut off, glancing guiltily at Neal. "If nobody claims the body, it'll go to medical research. You know where he was staying?"

Neal shook his head.

"We should investigate. I'll put an extra hold on the body, until we get this straightened out."

"What if he is my brother?"

"Then he obviously knew, and didn't tell you, which doesn't make him a very good one. And I'm sorry for your loss," Peter said. "What if he isn't? Would you mourn less?"

"I don't know," Neal said. "We had some good times together."

"I thought you two were rivals."

Neal shook his head. "Not at first. I...listen, can we not talk about it right now?"

"Hey, you brought it up," Peter reminded him. "We're gonna have to run him to ground either way, but yeah -- outside of the case, I'm just as happy to wait."

"Good. Okay. Let's do that," Neal said.

\---

Keller had a wallet on him with a full set of fake identification -- driver's license, credit cards, even a library card. They found a second set sewn into the cuffs of his jeans. He also had a couple of receipts, mostly for restaurants, which gave Diana and Jones a place to start canvassing. Neal studied the IDs and then called Mozzie, and they made a few calls on old associates of theirs.

One of the ID guys tipped him off to a high-rise retirement condo, where they found a forger named Hubert Smith.

"Come on in," he called, when Neal and Mozzie knocked on the door. They exchanged looks, then Neal shrugged and pushed the door open.

"Hope you don't mind if I don't get up," Hubert continued -- he was an elderly man, thin and frail, but he grinned at them and they knew that kind of smile. "You boys here about the equipment?"

"Yes, yes we are," Mozzie said, before Neal could open his mouth.

"Through there," Hubert gestured to a doorway. Mozzie ducked inside; Neal lingered in the living room, eyeing the bandage on Hubert's left hand. "Burned myself makin' a card for someone last week," Hubert said, holding it up. "I figure it's time to give up the game. Really only stayed in it for the company."

"The company?" Neal asked.

"Sure. Lots of young folk like yourself come around, keeps me entertained. When my kids brought me out from Ohio and put me up here I thought, well. Only a matter of time. But I kept going as long as I could."

"Holy cow!" Mozzie said from the other room.

"That'd be the holographic printer," Hubert told Neal with a laugh. "Always gets 'em bothered."

"You ever make a card for this guy?" Neal asked, holding out a photo of Keller.

"You a cop?" Hubert inquired.

"Nope."

"You a Fed?"

"Just looking to find him," Neal said.

"How much he owe you?"

Neal shook his head. "Nothing. He's dead."

Hubert whistled low. "Can't say I'm surprised. Sure, he came here. Did him a full package. That man looked like trouble from the jump."

"You know where he was staying? What he was into?"

Hubert narrowed his eyes. "You legally got to tell me if you're a cop."

"I'm not."

"Private dick?"

"Old friend."

"Uh-huh," Hubert grunted skeptically. "Don't know where he was staying. Said he was in town to settle some old business. Personal matters. I didn't ask too many questions."

The implication was clear. "Neither should I?" Neal said.

"S'right. That laminator's busted," Hubert called through the doorway. "You can have it for free if you haul it yourself."

"Is the press for sale?" Mozzie yelled.

"Nope, my grandson wants it, sorry," Hubert answered, then turned back to Neal. "This Keller fellow did specifically say he wanted a driver's license for trucking. I'd check the warehouses if I was you."

"Thanks, I appreciate that," Neal answered. "Mozzie?"

"I'll give you five hundred for everything," Mozzie said, emerging.

"That's a thousand dollars worth of equipment," Hubert pointed out.

"Yeah, and some of it's only good for parts," Mozzie answered.

"Eight hundred."

"I'm taking it off your hands. I have to factor transport into my price."

Neal sighed and let them dicker, walking away towards a window that looked out on the street. When he turned back, Mozzie was counting out cash, and Hubert was watching him.

"You Neal Caffrey?" Hubert asked. Mozzie paused. Neal nodded. "He did say you might come by. Forgot that till just now."

Neal's eyes darted to the cash in Mozzie's hand. "Forgot, huh?"

Hubert shrugged. "Got to make a living somehow," he said unrepentantly.

"What'd he say?"

"Said you were an asshole," Hubert replied. "I said he should just run on, in that case. He said it wasn't that simple."

Mozzie glanced at Neal. Neal hadn't mentioned the DNA test. Mozzie thought they were just trying to find Keller's cache.

"It usually isn't," Neal said. "Mozzie, pay the man and let's scram."

Mozzie finished counting money off the roll in his pocket, said, "Pleasure doing business with you. I'll have some guys collect the equipment," and followed Neal out.

"Wow, that was a lot of subtext," Mozzie said, as they rode down in the elevator. "I mean, I'm used to euphemism and deception, but I'm also used to knowing what the hell is going on," he added pointedly. "That was more than just unfinished business between you and Keller."

Neal shook his head. "Only trying to track him down. I told you."

\---

"ID's a bust," Neal announced, leaning in the doorway of the conference room. Peter looked up from the reports spread out in front of him on the table. "We found the guys he went to, but they didn't know anything. One of them said Keller said I'm an asshole."

"You have your moments," Peter answered, sliding a file across the table. "I think I know what Keller was up to. Aside from playing games with you, anyway."

Neal took the file, studying it. "Bank robbery. I guess that's his style. What makes you think the Queens job was him?"

"NYPD was keeping some details under wraps," Peter said. "Robber left this at the crime scene."

He tossed an evidence bag to Neal. Inside was a small black pawn.

"He meant for me to know," Neal said.

"Yep. NYPD swooped in first, or we'd have known two weeks ago."

"Before he even showed up at June's," Neal murmured. Keller had appeared on the terrace, infuriating, enraging really, because he was a dangerous man and Neal wanted June and her family to be safe from that kind of danger. _Let's play chase_ , he'd said, and for a week solid they had, Keller always a step or two ahead.

"One of the ID guys said Keller asked for a license for trucking," Neal said.

"Delivery truck's always a good excuse to double-park, makes for a quick getaway," Peter said. "I'll have them go through the traffic cam footage, see what we can get."

"The only reason you need a license for trucking is if you're trying to get a job doing it," Neal pointed out. "Warehouses make good hiding places. I knew a couple of guys who..." he glanced at Peter. "Allegedly broke into a furniture warehouse and squatted in the storage racks. They lived there for about a year before they got caught."

"I'll talk to Diana, have her shift the search towards industrial trucking," Peter said, taking out his phone. He glanced at Neal. "You doing all right?"

"Yeah, sure," Neal said easily. "I'm gonna take off, you need me?"

"Nah. Go home, get some rest," Peter said. "I'll work on these reports tonight, see if I can put anything together."

"Tell Elizabeth I say hi," Neal said. "See you tomorrow."

\---

They spent the next two days doing the stuff Peter knew Neal hated the most about working for the FBI: Agents knocked on doors, Peter and Jones ran down every lead in the paperwork, Diana reviewed the bank robbery and traffic-cam footage, and Neal -- well, he didn't really seem to ever have anything assigned, so he just moved from one project to the next, never staying with anything too long.

"What's got him so jumpy?" Jones asked, watching Neal talk to Diana, blatantly trying to weasel the traffic tapes out of her. "You think he was in on something with Keller?"

Peter shook his head. "It's just Neal."

"You sure? He seems like he doesn't know if he wants us to find Keller's hidey hole or not."

"Leave it alone, Jones," Peter said quietly, but in that tone of voice which Jones had long ago learned to listen to. "Neal'll be fine. Let's have another look at the map."

\---

There was no epiphany involved, no cleverness, no sudden a-ha moment, when they found Keller's bolthole. It was just relentless, solid FBI gruntwork, the kind of thing Neal tolerated badly but Peter knew got results.

The manager of an industrial laundry service, the kind that supplied uniforms and linens to hospitals and restaurants, recognized Keller's face.

"Sure, his ID didn't look perfect, but it didn't look like he was illegal or nothing," the manager said. "I mean, he was white."

Peter decided not to get into the five or six things wrong with everything the man had just said, and instead asked, "Do you have an address for him?"

The man laughed. "For some truck driver with a fake ID? Forget it."

"Can we see the truck he drove?"

The man didn't even ask why Keller hadn't shown up for his shift in a couple of days; he just took them over to the mid-sized truck he drove on shift and hiked the back door open with a kick of his boot. Inside there were piles of laundry bags, but Peter pushed past them and crouched next to a tool locker in the back, up against the wall of the cab. There was a sleeping bag rolled neatly next to it.

"All your trucks have this?" he asked, indicating the locker. The manager shook his head. "You mind if I open it?"

"Go ahead. What's this guy into, kinky shit?" the manager asked. "We get those sometimes. Panty sniffers."

"He's dead," Neal said.

"Shame. Reliable worker."

"Neal," Peter said, gesturing him into the truck. "Got your lockpicks?"

Neal picked the lock easily, then whistled low when Peter lifted the lid. Inside were two open laundry bags: one full of cash, the other full of clothing that definitely wasn't laundry pickup.

"Living in the truck?" he asked Peter in an undertone.

"Stashing here, anyway," Peter said, closing the locker. "We're going to have to confiscate this."

"Why, what's in it?"

"I can confiscate this or I can impound your truck and open an investigation into your employment of illegal workers and fraudulent hire of felons," Peter said calmly.

"Take the thing," the manager told him. Neal and Peter lifted it out together, loaded it into the back of the Taurus, and left.

"You're still going to open that investigation, huh," Neal said.

"Yep," Peter replied. "But right now we have other things to do."

\---

Back at the Federal Building, Peter set a couple of evidence techs to counting and cataloging the cash, then took the second bag to an evidence table and pulled on a pair of gloves. He glanced at Neal, hovering in the doorway.

"Look, either come help me or go get yourself some coffee and I'll tell you when I'm done," he said, not unkindly. Neal held out his hand, and Peter tossed him a pair of gloves.

"I feel really weird sifting through a dead man's underwear," Neal said, as Peter began pulling clothing out of the bag. "Really weird."

"Tell you what, I'll handle the underwear," Peter said, spreading the clothing out and going back to the bag for another handful. "You can -- oh."

"Find something?"

Peter pulled out a leather case, unzipping it. "Lockpicks and a mini-drill."

"Quality merchandise," Neal said, accepting the case and giving it a professional once-over. "Sheffield steel. Might be special-ordered."

"Toiletries," Peter announced, unzipping a second case, this one cheap vinyl. "Really?" he added, holding up a bottle of Axe cologne.

"Keller made it a point of pride to be obnoxiously low-brow," Neal reminded him.

"And..." Peter unearthed the last object in the bag, a plastic folder stuffed with paperwork. "Rent contracts on three different properties under three different names. Backup birth certificates, mix and match," he added, waving a handful of them, all with different names. Neal was still examining the picks minutely, like they might tell him something. "Google maps..."

Neal looked up. "To what?"

"Not the properties," Peter said, handing the printouts over. "Looks like somewhere upstate."

"What were you getting into?" Neal murmured, smoothing the folds of the paper.

"Neal," Peter said.

"Yeah?" Neal looked up. Peter was holding a small pasteboard notebook. "Is that a _diary?_ "

"Looks more like a little black book," Peter said, opening it. "Names, addresses, notes. Alphabet tabs...look at that, Neal Caffrey," he added, flipping to a page marked **C**.

"Let me guess, it says I'm an asshole," Neal said tiredly, closing the case with the picks and drill in it.

"Name, address -- _See Also, Peter Burke_ \-- that's not at all unsettling...this mean anything to you? M, eighteen, twelve of fourteen, L, fifteen, three of thirty two? Some kind of code."

Neal leaned over. "Those aren't fractions. Matthew book eighteen, twelve to fourteen, and Luke book fifteen, eleven to thirty two."

Peter raised his eyebrows.

"It's the redemption trilogy," Neal said. "Good Catholic boy like you doesn't know what those verses are?"

"Refresh me," Peter said drily.

"Matthew eighteen is the parable of the lost sheep," Neal said. "Luke fifteen is -- all three, I think, but those verses are probably the prodigal son."

"That's a little obscure, for Keller," Peter said.

"We did a -- we _allegedly_ ran a con at one point that required some...religious knowledge," Neal told him. "He knew his Bible. He made me memorize a bunch of the popular stuff."

"When was this?"

"After Baccarat, before he murdered someone in front of me," Neal said briefly. "You know the stories? Shepherd goes looking for his lost sheep, leaves the rest of the herd behind. Younger son spends his inheritance on booze and women, comes back to the farm to repent and live a sinless life, older brother doesn't like that much."

"Older brothers generally don't," Peter said. "So are you the lost sheep or the prodigal son?"

Neal shrugged. "Maybe both."

"You think he was trying to save you?"

"Yeah, that'd be the day," Neal said. "There's a third story about a woman looking for a lost coin. Interesting he left that one out. You know," he added, and Peter could have cut that misdirection with a knife, "there's a beautiful Rembrandt oil of the return of the prodigal son in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, all ochre and shadow. Not his best work, but kind of compelling."

Peter decided to let it drop.

"I'll have them bag and tag all this," he said, nodding at the clothing. "In the meantime, let's see where Keller was renting."

\---

By the time they'd visited all three properties, and found three empty apartments paid up for the next two months, the sun was setting low behind the skyline of New York. Diana said the cryptologists were having a field day with the little black book, and Jones said the Google maps didn't appear to have any secret coded messages -- they were just maps to a little town upstate. Not even to an address, just to the town, which didn't have anything particularly tempting for a man like Keller. No big banks, no museums, no wealthy eccentric art collectors.

"Let's pack it in for the night," Peter said, turning the Taurus towards June's place. "Get some sleep, we'll poke around some more tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan," Neal said, staring out the window.

"Hey, lost sheep," Peter said, and caught the edge of Neal's smile. "We will figure this out, okay? You know these things take time, and Keller was a twisty thinker."

"Yeah," Neal agreed. He glanced at Peter. "Maybe this isn't the best use of FBI resources. You found the money, why keep the case open?"

Peter considered his answer as they pulled up in front of June's.

"Well, we did find the cash, so I have a little leeway to see what else I can find," he said. "And it matters, finding out what he knew."

"Not to the government."

"We can't know that. What he said to you -- that might even have been a code for some big cache. I don't think it was, but I won't rule it out, and the FBI can't make me. I've been around too long for them to shut me down over a couple of days spent running old leads to ground."

Neal nodded. "See you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early," Peter said.

\---

Tomorrow came sooner than expected; it was half past midnight when there was a knock at their front door. Peter, usually a light sleeper, stumbled downstairs with a yawn and found Neal halfway through picking their locks.

"You got new bolts," Neal said. He smelled faintly like alcohol.

"Yeah, someone keeps breaking into my house," Peter answered sleepily.

"I woke you up."

"Gee, what gave it away?" Peter asked, combing his sleep-disarrayed hair back from his face with his fingers. Neal looked -- uncertain. Scared. A bad combination for him, and for Peter. "Come in, and stop hyperventilating."

He stood aside to let Neal in, then wandered over to a chair and slumped down in it, watching Neal pace back and forth on the living-room rug.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked finally. Neal was still in the suit he'd worn earlier that day, but his tie was loose and his jacket was wrinkled. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Not enough," Neal answered. Peter decided to believe him; his voice and eyes were clear. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"You try painting?"

Neal nodded. "And drinking, and -- I thought about going for a walk but...that's the kind of walk that leads to running. The bad kind of running."

"So you came here."

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"One hundred percent better than bad running," Peter informed him. Neal kept pacing. "You going to talk about it, or just walk around my living room for a while?"

Neal stopped and looked at him, then shoved his hands in his pockets and bowed his head.

"What if that town is where -- someone...someone Keller thought was his father or maybe mine or both...lives?" he asked.

"You're just now thinking of this?" Peter said, surprised. It was the first thing that had gone through his mind when he saw the maps. It was pretty much the top of his _suspicious things to check out tomorrow morning_ mental list.

"I've been thinking about it for hours. I can't get it out of my head," Neal said. "How does he manage to mess me up this badly even after he's dead?"

"I could say something about siblings here, but it's tasteless and premature," Peter observed. Neal gave him an annoyed look. "What do you want me to tell you, Neal? I told you to get some rest."

"I might have had a brother," Neal said. "And I didn't even know it. You know how we met? He _found_ me. He specifically came to my table in Monaco and watched me cheat and followed me to the hotel room I was scamming so we could talk. Like he knew. What if he knew?"

Peter politely didn't point out that Neal had just confessed to two crimes.

"And he kept pushing, he always wanted to do bigger things and more, because we could, because he had the guts and I had the brains. Which was great, you know, I learned a lot, until he blew a guy's head off over a stupid passport. After that all it was, all the time, was how I was such a kid, didn't want to get my hands dirty, fussy Neal Caffrey didn't have what it took to be a really _great_ criminal," Neal said, starting to pace again. "Fussy. Because I thought shooting people was crossing a line."

"So you started competing, instead of collaborating," Peter said.

"Yeah. About everything. Including Kate," Neal said.

"Are you mad you might have lost a brother, or are you mad your maybe-brother conned you?" Peter asked.

Neal stopped pacing and dropped onto the sofa, resting his face in his hands. "I told you I had bad blood. He killed a guy, Peter. More than one."

"You're not your father," Peter reminded him. "Or your brother, if he is your brother. Why do you do this?" he asked, honestly curious. "You spent your entire adult life pretending to be other people, redefining yourself, being the only one who _could_ define yourself. You've changed your image a dozen times. Why do you think these people should define you just because you share a few chromosomes?"

Neal just looked up at him, face blank, and suddenly the puzzle piece clicked into place.

"What do you think all those aliases were?" Neal asked.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, exhausted. "Places to hide. You were running away."

Neal nodded.

"So, this Neal Caffrey guy I know," Peter said, "who made it through four years in prison and works for the FBI, the guy I defused a bomb with, is he an alias too?"

There was a certain perplexed air to Neal's silence.

"You are not a collection of your parents' bad habits, Neal. Cowboy up and own yourself. If Keller was your brother, he understood enough to know that you're different people. You're a lot brighter than he was. Don't act stupid just because it's easy to pretend you're not responsible for what you do."

"This isn't very comforting," Neal said.

"You want comfort, hug a pillow," Peter said, and Neal snorted. "You didn't come to me because you thought I'd give you a pat on the head and tell you it'd all be okay. You showed up here because you know I don't let you get away with anything."

Neal dropped his eyes, which wouldn't have seemed like a response, except Peter knew him well enough to understand it was an implicit admission that he was right.

"Let me ask you something," he said quietly. "As a friend, okay? Not as an FBI agent."

"I didn't know you knew how to turn FBI agent off," Neal said.

"Ouch."

"Sorry."

"If your mother lied to you about your father, but you don't know if he's even alive -- how'd you find out he wasn't the hero she said he was?" Peter asked.

Neal studied his hands.

"Come on, Neal, don't fight me about this. I can't help you if I don't know what's going on. I'm not asking for the gory details, just a little overview."

"When I was sixteen I got my driver's license. They needed my birth certificate. I found out I wasn't born where I grew up -- thought I'd look up the town, see if there was anyone who remembered my dad. Found a newspaper article about a guy who was under indictment for selling drugs out of Evidence. He disappeared around the time I turned two."

"That's an old scam," Peter said.

"Yeah."

"Beat cops don't have access to Evidence," Peter continued. "Did he have a partner?"

"He wasn't a beat cop," Neal said. "He was a Fed."

Peter rocked back a little, startled. "Your father was a _Fed?_ "

"US Marshal," Neal said. "Irony, huh?"

"Every time I think you can't surprise me..." Peter shook his head. "Don't suppose you'd give me a name?"

"Not yet," Neal said quietly. "I assume you already searched Caffrey. It's my mother's maiden name."

Peter didn't really want to admit that he'd done that, but he nodded. "Not yet, huh?"

"I want to see if Keller was lying first."

"Which we should find out tomorrow or the next day." Peter studied him. "I'm scheduling a trip upstate to have a look at the place he mapped, but after that -- then what?"

Neal raised his eyebrows.

"If he's your brother, do you want to keep the case open? And if he's not, do we just drop it flat, or keep looking for your father? If he was indicted and ran, he's a cold case, but he's not a closed one. I could get it moved to my jacket, take a fresh look at it."

"Are you actually asking me?" Neal asked.

"I actually am."

"So if I said drop it..."

"Then I close the Keller file, and politely look the other way from your father's."

"You'd do that for me?" Neal looked surprised.

"There's nothing much left on Keller, really, and a cold case is a cold case. I wouldn't like it, but I'd do it," Peter said. "So I want you to stop thinking about this until we know, because we can't do much of anything until then. And when that time comes, then you need to think about what you want. Not before."

Neal nodded. It struck Peter suddenly how tired he looked, skin bruised and drawn tight under his eyes, body tense and awkward, not like Neal's usual easy languor.

"You want the guest room?" he asked. "Little late to try and get a cab."

Neal was opening his mouth to answer -- probably to refuse -- when there was a noise on the stairs and Elizabeth's voice called, "Sweetie?"

"Down here," Peter called back, standing to walk to the stairs. She was halfway down, robe pulled around her, hair tied back hastily with an elastic. "Sorry. Late night law enforcement conference."

"Hmm. Neal?"

"Hi," Neal said, joining Peter at the stairs.

"Hey," Elizabeth said. "You gonna be much longer?"

"Nope," Peter said, taking Neal's arm and gently but firmly propelling him up the stairs. "Just setting Neal up in the guest room."

"There's extra blankets in the closet," she said, yawning and backing her way up the stairs. "Don't let Satchmo bully you into sharing the bed."

"Thanks," Neal said. "I won't."

Peter made sure the guest room had linens on the bed and that the heating vent was open, then left Neal to whatever evening rituals he had and crept back into bed next to his wife.

"How is he?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Having a hard time. Anyone would be. Drinking more than he should, but I can't say I blame him."

"You think Keller was his brother?"

"I think Keller's a manipulative liar with no conscience and no reason to be honest," Peter said. "Plus every motivation to try and screw Neal up as much as possible. We'll know soon, anyway." He inhaled. "Neal told me his father was a US Marshal. Ran out on them when Neal was two to get out of standing trial for drug dealing."

"Remind me in the morning to give him a hug," she said, around a yawn. "Nice he finally told you, though. I'm glad he has you."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, staring up at the ceiling. "Me too."


	2. Answers

The next morning, Neal was quiet and unusually well-behaved at breakfast, perhaps as an apology for invading the Burke household and dumping his personal issues all over them at one in the morning. Or possibly he was slightly hung-over. Peter drove him back to June's so he could change, and got a call from Jones while he was sitting on the terrace with June, waiting for Neal to finish picking out cuff links or whatever the hell he was doing.

"Cryptology found another line of code like Neal's," Jones said. "Under the name Carl Danbury, who lives in Warrensburg, New York."

"Warrensburg?" Peter said. "Isn't that where the maps went?"

"Yeah. The code is M, thirteen, forty-four," Jones said. "Looked that one up. If it's still the book of Matthew, it's another parable."

"Which one?"

"The Parable of the Hidden Treasure," Jones said, his voice rich with skepticism.

"More and more interesting," Peter murmured. "Okay, put in a call to the local police up in Warrensburg, see what you can find out, email them Keller's mug shot. Tell them I should be up there tomorrow looking into a case, we'd appreciate their cooperation. Do the friendly thing -- we won't step on anyone's toes, any collar credit goes to the local LEOs, you know the drill."

"You taking Neal with you?" Jones asked.

"Sort of depends on how today goes," Peter said, as Neal emerged. "Be there in twenty." He snapped the phone shut and looked up at Neal. "The name Carl Danbury ring any bells for you?" he asked.

Neal shook his head. "Should it?"

"He's another one with a parable attached," Peter said. "Come on, I'll tell you in the car."

\---

"Keller wasn't actually religious," Neal observed, as they reviewed the report from cryptology that morning. "As far as I knew. Why is he quoting the Bible at me now?"

"Was your father?" Peter asked. Neal groaned. "Look, I'm asking a valid question for a federal investigation, I'm not satisfying prurient interest here."

"I think you're doing both," Neal said, sitting back in his chair. "No. Again, as far as I know. I wasn't raised in any particular religion, but I have to say Christianity gets a major percentage of the really great Western art from the past fifteen hundred years."

"No luck on Carl Danbury," Jones said, entering the conference room. "Local police haven't heard of him, no hits for any addresses nearby."

"Road trip," Neal said with a small smile.

"Behave, or I'm not taking you anywhere," Peter told him. Neal shrugged innocence, but he was still smiling, which was at least something.

Peter spent the day organizing information, pulling all the little data threads together to try and make sense of them, between the bank robbery and the truck driving, the address book and the maps, the bible verses, and what little information he had on Neal's father. He could have pushed him for more, but Neal was close enough to crazy at the moment without Peter shoving him over the edge of it.

He copied out the last parable onto an index card, studying it for a while. _Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field._

As with most of the parables he'd learned in his youth, Peter felt it didn't make much sense. Why not just drag the treasure away? Why bury it in a field you didn't even own? Sure, the damn thing was a metaphor, but metaphors should still make sense. He wondered if Carl Danbury was just one of Keller's aliases, and all the parable meant was that somewhere in a field in Warrensburg some of Keller's loot was moldering underground. Or maybe Carl Danbury was someone Keller had killed.

He had just managed to get all the information laid out to his satisfaction, spread over one end of the conference-room table, when one of the FBI secure couriers appeared in the doorway.

"Agent Burke?" he said. Peter nodded. "DNA lab sent this up for you. Sign here and here, badge number here," he added, offering an envelope and a clipboard. Peter signed, scrawled his badge number, and accepted the envelope. He glanced over the courier's shoulder to see Neal watching from his desk, so still he looked like he was barely breathing. Peter gestured for him to come up as the courier left.

"Is that it?" Neal asked, nodding at the envelope.

"Yep." Peter offered it to him. Neal took it slowly.

"Aren't you curious?" he asked.

"Extremely. But it's not my lab work," Peter said. "You look, figure it out, tell me what you want to do."

Neal gave him a peculiar look, then glanced down at the envelope and slit it open neatly with a finger, pulling out the thin stack of papers inside. They were clipped together, and he frowned as he looked at the first page, which had a series of charts and graphs on it, from what Peter could see. He flipped it up, scanned the second page, and then sat down slowly in one of the conference room chairs. His eyes moved quickly, but they seemed to be reading the same few lines repeatedly. Peter waited.

Finally, Neal flipped the top sheet down and folded it into thirds, tucking it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Low probability of full siblings," he said. "High probability of one shared parent."

Peter leaned against the table. "You okay?"

Neal was silent, which meant he didn't want to lie, and also didn't want to admit the truth.

"He wasn't lying about that, anyway," he said, after a while. "I had a brother."

"Yep," Peter said.

"My brother's dead," Neal continued, as if he were trying out the phrase, like an actor reciting a line. "My brother killed people."

"Neal?" Peter asked.

"My brother kidnapped you," Neal said, turning to look up at him. "He would have killed you. My brother."

"Also true," Peter agreed, sensing they were reaching the heart of the problem -- not that Keller had been a murderer in the abstract, or even that Neal had seen him kill someone, but that Keller had tried to kill _Peter_. "I haven't held it against you so far," he added.

"So he probably did find our father," Neal continued, dazedly. "Why would he lie about that part?"

"Why would he lie about anything? It's not like he ever needed a strong reason," Peter pointed out.

"Why wouldn't he tell me we were brothers?"

"Neal," Peter said, more firmly now, not a question. "Let's get a grip here."

Neal nodded.

"Now you know, you need to process this and figure out what you want to do. You want to take the day, I can send you home."

"No," Neal said.

"You sure? Because you're not looking very productive at the moment."

"No, I -- should go claim his body," Neal said, still sounding distracted, almost absent. "What do I do with the body?"

Peter caught his arm, gently. "They're not going to pack it for you in a box you can take in a taxi. We can call and claim it from here. They'll make funeral arrangements if you want."

"Cremation," Neal replied. "He said cemeteries gave him the creeps."

"Okay, let's -- "

"And we're still going tomorrow, right?" Neal asked suddenly, looking at him for the first time. "To Warrensburg?"

"If you're up for it," Peter replied.

"Do you think Carl Danbury's my father?"

"Neal, I honestly don't know," Peter said. "We don't even know if he's there. Right now, let's focus on this, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," Neal said, and almost visibly got himself under control. Peter watched, fascinated as always by how Neal could just shake something off and drop a mask into place, a grinning mask that said _I'm fine._ "So...I'll claim the body, then we can finish working on the file and call it a day."

"Sounds like a plan," Peter said. He might not like the mask, but at least it meant less work for him, calming Neal down. For a while, anyway.

"Peter," Neal said.

"Yeah?"

"If I told you to stop the investigation, you'd honestly...?"

"Say the word," Peter said.

"Not yet." Neal shook his head. "But it's nice to have the escape option."

\---

Peter managed to talk Neal into staying with them again that night, on the pretext that they could leave earlier for Warrensburg the next morning. He drove Neal to his place to pack an overnight bag, then brought him home and left him talking with El on the couch, voices low, heads together, while he walked the dog. By the time he got back, Neal was cooking them dinner.

"You two have a good talk?" he asked El as they set the table together, away from Neal's sharp hearing.

"Your subtle interrogation techniques need some work," she said, smiling. "I guess we did, but not the way you mean. He didn't talk about it at all. He spent the whole time telling me about some new show the Met put out a press release on today."

"That's what he was talking about?" Peter asked, dismayed. Elizabeth was usually better than that at getting confessions out of people.

"I didn't want to push," she said. "He got the DNA results, didn't he?"

"Yeah, didn't have time to call you. They confirmed Keller's his brother. Half-brother, anyway."

"Hard on him," she said. "You sure you should be telling me?"

"He wouldn't have told me unless he was okay with you knowing. He knows how we work," Peter replied.

"Maybe he needs some private time to work it out," Elizabeth suggested. "Sometimes less talking can mean more thinking."

"I hope so," Peter said, glancing at the kitchen door. "He was thinking about running last night."

"But he didn't," she pointed out.

"And I'm glad. Doesn't mean I'm not worried." He sighed. "Keller really messed him up."

"Do you think he was jealous?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of Neal? Could be. They're both devious, but Neal's smarter than him. Neal got out, not everyone likes the guy who got out."

"No, of you," she replied. Peter frowned. "Neal works for you. With you. You're his new partner, and you're an FBI agent. He didn't kidnap Neal, Peter, he kidnapped you. Took you away from him." She shrugged. "Maybe he didn't like that his little brother found someone better than him."

"I think probably he just knew I'd be a good bargaining chip," Peter said. "Also, he was really pissed about that wine bottle."

Elizabeth smiled. "You tell yourself that, hon, if it helps."

\---

The drive to Warrensburg, a small crossroads about forty miles north of Albany, was supposed to take three hours, according to Keller's maps. Peter opened the Taurus up once they got out in the country, and decided they'd probably make it in a little under two.

"Hey there, Andretti, remember you're risking the life of someone other than yourself," Neal said, as the needle passed eighty. "Are we in a hurry or do you just really like going fast?"

"It can't be both?" Peter asked, but he kept his eyes on the road. "I didn't think you'd mind getting there sooner rather than later, and I'd like to do whatever we need to and be home in time for dinner."

"What are we doing, anyway?" Neal asked. "Jones already quizzed the locals."

"Sometimes you have to be hands-on," Peter replied. "You know that. Walk around, look at things. Put the pieces together. Sit in a diner and do the crossword."

"You're like the Zen Buddhist of the FBI," Neal told him.

"I've noticed, over the past few years, that complaining is a good distraction for you," Peter said. "You doing okay?"

"Thinking about things," Neal said with a shrug.

"And?" Peter prompted. Neal stayed quiet. "Come on, Neal."

"It's not just Keller," Neal said finally. "If he did find our father, did he introduce himself? Tell him about me? If we find him, what happens then?" He turned to Peter. "Will you arrest him?"

Peter had thought about that too, lying in bed the night before, Elizabeth curled up against him. "I have to, Neal. I might not have his casefile -- I don't even know his name -- but if what you told me is the truth, he's a fugitive."

"I wasn't saying you shouldn't."

"But you don't want me to. You won't even tell me his name."

Neal stared out the window at the trees whizzing past. "It's not about you."

"Then what is it about?"

"He's a drug dealer who walked out on his family. On me. If you arrest him, I'm right there. Do I talk to him?" Neal turned back to Peter. "What am I supposed to say?"

"You'll figure it out. We have to find him first. One step at a time."

"Easy for you. You've got the handbook," Neal said. "Catch the bad guy, put him in cuffs, book him, print him, mug shots, evidence, US Attorney, trial, sentencing."

"You think watching you slowly go nuts is easy for me?" Peter asked.

"I think you're separating the two pretty well," Neal replied. "Must be nice, that's all."

"Let's just see if we can find him," Peter said firmly, not rising to the bait.

"Sure," Neal agreed, and fell silent. He didn't speak again until the GPS announced, gently, _Exit now for Warrensburg. Fifty feet ahead, turn left._

"Here goes nothing," Neal muttered, as Peter pulled off the freeway and swung the car around towards the imaginatively named Main Street. It was a pretty little town, houses and stores intermingling on the few major roads like they did in most small places. He pulled into a parking lot next to a liquor store and passed Neal an envelope.

"I'll take this side of the street," he said. "You take the other. Ask around, show Keller's photo, see if anyone knows Danbury."

Neal looked at him, surprised. "You think I'm going to tell you if I find him?"

"You think you're not?" Peter asked in reply. Neal looked down at the envelope, opening it; there was a photo of Matthew Keller inside, and a copy of the notebook entry for Carl Danbury. "See you at the far end."

\---

Warrensburg wasn't a big town, but it seemed bigger on foot, especially when you had to stop and talk to people in every store along the street. Some of them viewed Peter with thinly-disguised mistrust, but he didn't get the sense any of them were lying when they said they hadn't ever heard of Carl Danbury. A couple of them said they recognized Keller, who'd been in town about a month ago -- _a real shady character_ said the owner of a sandwich shop where Keller had bought lunch a few times -- but they didn't know why he was in town or what he'd been doing when he hadn't been eating sandwiches or buying soda at the grocery store. One of them said they thought they saw him taking pictures of the local church, and Peter made a note to ask Neal if he'd talked to anyone there.

Neal caught up to him at the edge of town, crossing the street from a cheap motel.

"Any luck?" Peter asked.

"Keller stayed there," Neal said, indicating the motel. "Paid cash. They let me look at his room. Nothing there. You?"

"He likes turkey sandwiches and Sprite," Peter said. "Danbury?"

Neal's face held no trace of deception as he shook his head -- not that it ever did, but Peter could usually catch him in a half-lie these days. "Nobody's heard of him."

"There's another road that branches off Main," Peter said, as they began walking back through the town. "Let's get some lunch, we can look there after we eat."

"Have I mentioned I hate the knocking-on-doors part of this job?" Neal asked.

"Once or twice. You're whining again."

"Everyone I talked to who recognized Keller thought he was a creep," Neal said.

"So? You thought he was a creep."

"Is that how people see me?" Neal asked.

"You're not a creep," Peter assured him, a faint note of annoyed tolerance in his voice. He steered Neal into the sandwich shop.

"Back so soon, Agent Burke?" the man behind the counter asked, and then nodded at Neal. "Who's your friend?"

"Seriously, you gave them your name and everything?" Neal asked Peter. "Are you _trying_ to drive him underground?"

"This is Neal Caffrey," Peter said to the man, and Neal groaned. "He's working with me. Meatball sandwich and chips. Neal?"

"Vegetarian," Neal said. The man gave him a funny look. "No chips."

"Are you from around here?" the man asked, as he slopped a few meatballs in a microwave and began dishing sad-looking lettuce and tomato onto a roll.

"No," Neal said.

"Why?" Peter asked.

"No reason, he just reminded me of someone."

"Who?"

The man looked startled by Peter's question. "Probably just has one of those faces."

"Who?" Neal asked, quieter now. The man nodded at a photograph hanging on the wall, one of a dozen, all of them taken in what was obviously the sandwich shop. Peter glanced at him for permission and then took the photo off the wall.

There were two men in it, seated at one of the shop's tables. One was young and lanky, with greasy blond hair peeking out from under a trucker's cap. The other was older, with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing jeans and a sweater. He was a big guy, about a hundred pounds heavier than Neal and jowly, but he had the same grey-blue eyes, and the curve of chin and nose were too similar for coincidence. Neal peered over his shoulder, silent.

"You know his name?" Peter asked. The man chuckled.

"He had a few, I think," he said. Peter glanced at Neal. "Joseph somethingorother, mostly. Nice guy. Not very popular. Used to sell speed to the farm kids, I heard."

"You know where we could find him?" Neal asked.

"Sure," the man said. "St. Cecilia's, down the road. Third or fourth row back."

Peter heard Neal swallow, the click of his teeth as he clenched his jaw.

"Third or fourth row back in the graveyard?" Neal asked.

"We'll take those to go," Peter said, pointing at the sandwiches.

\---

The headstone wasn't hard to find. It was the only one with recently fresh flowers on it. The name said Joseph Delancey. The date said he'd died about six years ago.

"His real name was Joseph," Neal said, standing over the sad remains of the flowers, looking down at the cheap headstone. "Joseph Mackintosh. That was the name on my birth certificate."

"I'm sorry, Neal," Peter said quietly.

"Don't be. I'm not. What could be easier?" Neal asked, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "No need to worry about what I should say to him."

"Carl Danbury must have been a recent alias," Peter said. "Keller tracked Danbury up here, probably poked around until he found Delancey. He must have been desperate."

"Who?"

"Keller. He looked until he found you, then kept looking until he found your father. Nobody looks that hard unless they really, really want to find someone," Peter said. "He must have wanted family badly."

"Mackintosh probably did the same thing to him he did to me," Neal said. "Blew in, blew out. Maybe his mother didn't lie to him like mine did, gave him more to go on."

"You want a minute?" Peter asked gently.

"No," Neal said, backing away and then turning around, walking back down the row of headstones to the path along one edge of the small cemetery.

He got as far as the fence at the front before he stumbled. Peter darted forward and caught his arm, easing him down onto a bench next to the fence. Apparently the smoker's porch; there was a dirty ashtray nearby. Neal leaned forward and pressed his face into his hands, then rubbed them through his hair.

"Man, what a couple of screwups," he said. "Dad sold drugs, big brother got off on murder, little brother did time -- still doing time. What trash."

"Neal," Peter said, startled.

"Keller was right, I'm not any better than he was. Just _fussier_ ," Neal continued. "I should have told you to close the case."

"Answers are better than questions," Peter said, sitting down next to him.

"Seriously?" Neal asked, looking at him. "You think this is better than not knowing?"

"Yeah, I do. You can move on, now, if you want."

Neal stayed still, fingers tangled in his hair, hunched over.

"So you found out you have family," Peter said. "And they're not what you wanted them to be, and they're dead. That's a lot to take in."

"You're really bad at this," Neal said.

"Yeah, well, I'm what you've got," Peter told him. Neal snorted. "Look, nobody's family is perfect. Elizabeth and her sister get along really well as long as they're at least fifty miles apart. In the same house, they last about a week before they want to kill each other."

"Bet her sister never actually tried, though."

"That's beside the point," Peter said. "Yeah, okay, your dad walked out on you. Did you really want to grow up in a meth lab? Your brother was a screwed-up mess who tried to make you into one too, but you wouldn't go there. You don't get to choose your family, just how you react to them. And probably, in his own sociopathic way, Keller was trying to be a good brother to you. He tried to teach you. Tried to find your father."

"A good brother wouldn't have lied to me," Neal said.

"You lie to people all the time."

"Not about family. Not _to_ family."

"Well, I didn't say he was good at it," Peter reminded him.

"Yeah." Neal laced his fingers together between his knees, flexing them against his knuckles. "I never really expected to have a father. I thought he was dead. Then I thought he was a jerk. But having a brother would have been nice." He gave Peter a small smile. "Just not that brother."

"Special-ordered?" Peter asked with a grin.

"If only." Neal looked back down at his fingers. "Someone like you."

Peter frowned. "Like me?"

"You look out for me. Yell at me when I screw up. Try to do what's best for me," Neal said. "Why not? Can you think of someone better?"

"Neal -- "

"Forget it," Neal said. "I'm just saying. I could do worse. I did do worse, actually."

Peter rested a hand on his shoulder, tightening it slightly. "I can do that. I do it already. I didn't think you actually liked being yelled at for screwing up. If that's what you want, though..."

"Two more years and I'm out of your hair," Neal said.

"Yeah, that's really going to work," Peter drawled. Neal looked up at him, questioning. "You're my friend, Neal. That doesn't change when the anklet comes off, not unless you want it to. If you want a brother, I can be that, but you have to hold up your half and not run out on it. Be a better man than they were. You get that chance."

"I don't know -- " Neal started.

"Also it means you have to come to Thanksgiving," Peter continued, cutting him off. "You have to help me hide from El's nieces, who are terrifying and cruel."

Neal smiled a little. "How old?"

"Six and four."

"I think I can handle that."

"Okay then," Peter said. "Let's get the hell off this bench, huh?"

\---

They were quiet on the drive back, Neal studying the scenery, Peter focused on the road. They made it into Manhattan just before rush hour, and Peter pulled to a stop near the entrance to the Federal Building's parking garage.

"I should go close the Mackintosh case," he said. "Add some notes to Keller's and close that too. Check in with Jones and Diana."

"Yeah," Neal said listlessly. Peter glanced at him.

"Want to play hooky?" he asked. Neal raised an eyebrow. "I'm not humoring you."

"Of course not," Neal said.

"But there's a Giants game on in about half an hour and it looks really good on the big screen."

"Football? Really?"

"You have a better idea?" Peter challenged.

"Um, anything? Anything is a better idea than football," Neal said.

"Fine, you can walk Satchmo and pester Elizabeth," Peter said, pulling back out into traffic. "Or go over the open file box, help me find a new case."

"Wait -- are you trying to bond with me?" Neal asked, looking horrified.

"Hey, you wanted family," Peter said. "It's a package deal. Football and case files included."

Neal sat back. "Then next time I want to go to a gallery outside my radius you have to take me."

Peter glanced at him. "Then next time you want to steal a painting, don't."

"I take it back. I want to be an only child."

"Too late," Peter said cheerfully. "You're stuck with me now."

Neal didn't reply, but when Peter looked over at him as they crossed the bridge into Brooklyn, he was smiling faintly out the window.


	3. Epilogue

Three days later, Neal scattered Matthew Keller's ashes outside the New York Federal Reserve Bank, while Peter reluctantly stood lookout.

It wasn't magically going to be better. Peter knew that. Neal sometimes showed up at work over the next few months looking tired and drawn, like he had after Kate's death, and there were a couple more midnight visits where Peter sat half-dozing in the living room while Neal paced and talked it all out and eventually let Peter throw him in the guest room to sleep it off. He did stupid things, too, took risks on ops and almost stole a diamond necklace and picked the pocket of a visiting VIP Bureau Director who pissed him off.

Peter just yelled at him when he acted like an idiot and made Neal give him the wallet (and then made Neal give him the cash that had been in the wallet) and relentlessly forced family dinner on him at least one a week. Eventually it worked. Neal stopped testing the limits -- at least, these new limits, because Neal's basic operating mode was one of limit-testing at all times -- and started taking for granted that if he wanted to come home for dinner, he could.

The only thing it cost him was the option of running. If he ran out on family, he wasn't any better than his father, and he was determined to prove he was.

Well, there were other costs. Just small ones, though.

\---

Elizabeth wasn't sure what Peter threatened Neal with to get him to come with her to the Yankees game. It wasn't that she minded going alone, but it was so much more fun to go with someone, and when Peter had to bag out because of some consult he was doing in Washington, he decided it was Neal's duty to squire her to the game.

She listened to Neal moan and complain about it for about a day and a half before demurely suggesting during dinner that baseball was, after all, a mathematical sport, and a sport that people bet money on. Neal got quiet and thoughtful over his chicken pot pie, and after dinner he stole Peter's laptop and began studying team statistics, calculating odds. The next day she got a text message asking her how much she wanted to put on the Yankees. She put twenty bucks on for the fun of it; Neal put two hundred.

"You're pretty sure of yourself," she said, as Neal sat back in his seat with a bag of popcorn, a Yankees cap pulled down over his eyes (possibly a stolen Yankees cap; she knew he didn't own one and she was wearing Peter's).

"It's all math," Neal said with a shrug.

"You didn't calculate for human frailty?"

"I'm a con man," he told her. "I always calculate for human frailty. Watch me win, you'll wish you put more than twenty down."

"The Yankees win, you're buying us dinner," she said, standing up to squeeze past him. "I'm getting a beer."

"It'll cost you all your profits!" he called after her. She laughed and made her way to the nearest concessions stand.

"Elizabeth Burke, you have to tell me who the dish is you're sitting with," a voice said, as she joined the line.

"Tam!" she said, accepting a hug from the other woman, a fellow season-ticket holder who usually had seats a few rows behind hers. "Hi!"

"You minx," Tam said. "Tell me you didn't trade in Peter for a younger model. Wait, tell me you did, I'll go comfort him."

Elizabeth smiled. "No, Peter couldn't make it. The dish is his brother."

"That dish," Tam repeated, disbelieving. "Peter _Burke's_ brother? Peter has a hot little brother? Is he single?"

She knew she was probably going to get into trouble for it -- Peter and Neal didn't like to actually talk about the little deal they'd struck -- but Peter had abandoned her for Washington and Neal liked being admired, and Elizabeth thought the whole thing was sort of adorable.

"He's very protective of Neal," she said. "You know how it is. Neal's young, a little innocent..."

Oh _God_ , she was going to get into so much trouble. Totally worth it.

"He looks sweet," Tam said. "Introduce me?"

Elizabeth collected her beer and led Tam back to their seats, where Neal was listening idly to the people around him yelling insults at the opposing team.

"You got beer and a friend?" Neal asked, looking up at them.

"Neal, this is my friend Tam," Elizabeth said, as she settled back into her seat and Tam leaned on the armrest of Neal's. "Tam, this is Peter's brother Neal."

Neal cast a quick glance her way, amused, and then offered Tam his hand. "Any friend of Peter and El's."

"So you're a Yankees fan too, huh?" Tam said, and Neal doffed his hat.

"Actually, this is my first game."

"Just visiting New York?"

"No, just didn't really appreciate baseball before. Peter made me come to the game."

"Well, brothers," she said, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Neal. Maybe we'll see each other after the game."

"Nice to meet you," Neal agreed, as Tam made her way back to her seat. He turned to Elizabeth, pointing over his shoulder subtly.

"You just told her I was actually Peter's brother," he said. Elizabeth smiled. "You liar!"

"What?" she asked, stealing some popcorn. "You can't slide on your looks alone. Being Peter's brother gives you cred."

"Being _Peter's brother_ gives me cred," he said skeptically.

"Sure. Pretty faces are a dime a dozen. Stand-up guys like Peter and his little brother are rare," she said. "The Burke name conveys a certain amount of respectability."

"Aw, now I'm respectable?" Neal groaned.

"Promise I won't tell anyone else," she said. "I know you have an image to uphold."

Just then there was a roar from the crowd and Neal's attention snapped back to the game. He craned his neck, watching a high fly ball soar through the air, waiting to see if it hit the outfield or the stands. He might only care because he had money riding on the game, but in that moment he did look like Peter would have, just a little -- suspenseful, awed, and fascinated by the game.

Older brother was definitely having an influence, she decided, right before Neal burst into a cheer as the ball landed in the bleachers.


End file.
